


Darling, Let's Hurt Tonight

by kataurah



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Season/Series 08, Romance, The Long Night, repost
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-03-09 20:13:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18924232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kataurah/pseuds/kataurah
Summary: Jaime is so careful with her now... He doesn't seem angry with her, just lost and uncertain. How is it she can miss him more when he's across the courtyard from her than at the other end of the country?REPOST





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, all. This is a re-post of a fic I took down (which I'm sorry to have done that, as a lot of people seemed to like it and gave me a lot of lovely feedback) and that I wrote during the Long Hiatus between seasons 7 and 8. Hope you still enjoy it.

Jaime is so careful with her now. 

Where Brienne advances, he retreats, avoiding her eyes, never able to hold her gaze for long anymore, just like at the meeting in King's Landing. She'd been the one to reach out then; she'd grabbed him and yanked him around to face her, cursing in his face. It was as though they had exchanged roles in this strange, frustrating, aching dance between the two of them. 

Jaime withdraws. He calls her "my lady" and is quiet and sullen. As such, he fits in with the northern men rather well, despite the looks of loathing and hissed accusations that follow him wherever he goes. What Brienne wouldn't give for a glimpse of the man who'd been her captive; that sharp tongue, that arrogant grin. Words and piercing looks that, despite herself, crawled beneath her skin. Jaime had settled there, deep down, and every time they said goodbye, Brienne knew that he carried a piece of her with him as well. 

They aren't friends, but they aren't enemies. They aren't lovers, but they know each other's souls. It is a connection, a bond, that she is sure she will never recover from. 

Which is why it frustrates her no end to have him so close again, yet remain so closed off to her. When he faced her inside his tent at Riverrun, he had been open to her, his fear and vulnerability clear when she spoke of having to fight him. He'd expressed much the same in their brief exchange at King's Landing and he'd sounded so bitter and angry. Whether it was at her or the situation, she still isn't sure. 

He doesn't _seem_ angry with her, just lost and uncertain. How is it she can miss him more when he's across the courtyard from her than at the other end of the country? 

She knows something happened with Cersei, but she only knows what he'd told everyone else: that Cersei's pledge to send troops north had been a lie, but that he had come anyway. He'd rode through Winterfell's gates alone, at the risk of losing his head or being burnt alive, in order to keep his vow. Brienne is proud of him; she knows disobeying Cersei, leaving her, must have been one of the hardest things he's ever had to do. 

She also knows that he's survived worse. She's borne witness to that. Given how back on the road he never used to shut up, it's almost funny how she wishes he would talk to her. 

But neither of them are particularly skilled at talking a problem through; they both prefer actions rather than words. So Brienne tries beating it out of him instead.  That is, she throws a sparring sword at him one morning as he watches her and Arya training young recruits from sidelines. 

He catches it, if a little clumsily, frowning and huffs, his breath fogging the freezing air, "I don't want to fight." 

"Then why did you come here?" She challenges, squaring her stance and raising her own blunted blade. "When the army of the dead comes, I don't imagine you'll be given a choice." 

Since Eastwatch fell there has been no sighting of the undead dragon that Bran Stark says brought the Wall down, but the army is moving steadily south. Ranging parties organised by the King have not put a dent in their forces, and Queen Daenerys is far more wary about risking her dragons now. 

Jaime's green eyes flash in anger ( _good_ , she thinks) and he clenches his jaw, but does not reply. Brienne is satisfied that he is responding to her, at least. 

She swings at him, trusting him to engage, to block her, which he does on reflex, even if he looks uncomfortable doing it. After a few more strikes it becomes clear that he has no confidence in his movements or his instincts and Brienne feels a stab of sadness for the swordsman he once was. The way they had moved together before had been like a dance. If she hadn't been fighting for her life, Brienne could have let herself become entranced with the easy grace of his movements. 

Maybe he'll never be as good again, but she wants him to believe in the skills and knowledge he still has, rooted in the centre of his being, that can still be applied to his left hand; muscle memory can be relearnt. 

More than that, she wants him to come alive again. She wants him to _stay_ alive. She wants him to be able to fight the dead and win. 

She doesn't want to take it easy on him - she thinks he'd notice anyway - she wants to goad him until he finally snaps and lets out everything that's been stewing inside him since he came north, whether that be with words or a sword. 

So Brienne presses him, and every time she lands (what would be) a fatal blow, every time she disarms him, she can see his frustration building. He huffs and shakes his head, like a lion shaking it's mane, growls at her: 

"I don't know what you're expecting here," He waves his covered stump at her; he's stopped wearing the golden hand. "It's not going to grow back. I'm never going to give you a decent fight." 

Brienne advances again and he parries, holding his ground despite his words. He sounds tired and defeated and it makes her angry, 

"I don't believe that, and neither should you," She argues, and hears him mutter something that sounds like "stubborn wench." At least he sounds more like himself; she almost welcomes the old epithet, "I expect you to keep training like everyone else if we are to survive this." 

He smiles at that, but it is a sad, broken thing that makes her stomach twist with dread. 

"I never expected to survive, Brienne." 

For a moment there is no air, she can't breathe, and she's distracted enough that she can't move to block him when he finally lands a blow; a tap against her thigh, so very close to where he nicked her with a much sharper blade, years ago. 

He doesn't even look satisfied, just sighs and avoids her eyes, "Brienne..." 

She's suddenly furious. 

"So you came here to die, is that it, _Ser?_ " She spits the title at him; if he can use formalities against her then so can she. Perhaps he thinks life is not worth living without his twin. She almost says it, but doesn't think she could bear hearing him confirm it. 

"I'm just another sword in this fight, Brienne," He says, calmly, not allowing her to draw him into an argument, "I'd rather die with a sword in my hand than by dragon fire if we actually win this war." 

"I'd rather you not die at all!" She snaps, the truth spilling out in anger now. " _I_ would die before I  let that happen!" 

_Finally_ that dull, resignation in his eyes vanishes, replaced by a burning fury that matches her own, and he surges forward, swinging his blunted sword and catching her off guard. Brienne barely manages to block him and they exchange heavy blows as Jaime throws himself into the fight at last. He seems to be running purely on rage, and even though there is no finesse in his technique, there is strength and power that steadily drives her backwards. 

This was what she'd been aiming for, wasn't it? To bring his emotions to the surface? To coax him out from behind the walls he'd thrown up between them? But the fact that it had been _those_ words - the thought of her giving her life for his - that had provoked this reaction from him... Brienne is overwhelmed by the sheer force that is the Lion of Lannister, for that is entirely who he is in this moment. 

This is the man that used to inspire fear and awe on the battlefield, the man she fought back on that bridge in the Riverlands, filthy and chained though he was. His appearance didn't matter once he had a sword in his hand. 

Before she knows it, her back hits cold stone and Jaime pins her, their swords tangled, scraping together between them, both breathing heavily, as their eyes lock, unwavering, like they haven't for months. This close, this angry, it's like staring into wildfire, how Brienne has always imagined it.

" _Never_ say that again," He hisses dangerously, "Don't even _think_ it." It's then that Brienne sees it:  fear, flashing raw and naked through that green blaze in his eyes, fear for _her_. It renders her speechless. "I swear, I will not have you dying for me, Brienne!" He snarls, leaning in so close she can feel the heat of his breath on her flushed skin. She's aware of every single place his body is brushing and pressing against her own, holding her in place. An unfamiliar warmth rushes through her, and something tugs low in her belly: the urge to close the scant space between them, to feel Jaime's lips on hers, because he is furious and scared at the thought of losing her, and he is beautifully, gloriously alive. She wants him so much right now that it shocks and frightens her. 

Perhaps he sees something of what she's thinking on her face, realises suddenly their improper position, because the shutters fall back down over his eyes and he takes a step back, leaving her cold again. _Of course_ , she thinks, feeling like a foolish young maiden who got carried away, _he could not possibly feel the same way_. Not about her. 

He throws the sparring sword at her feet, 

"I'm not worth dying for." He says, as if he could drill it into her mind if he repeated it enough times, then stalks away, leaving her with a hundred unsaid things lodged in her throat. 

She only whispers the foremost thought aloud into the frozen morning air, the courtyard suddenly deserted and silent: 

"To me you are." 


	2. Chapter 2

In the end - unsurprisingly - it takes the very thing that Jaime is afraid of to mend the rift between them. It's not until Brienne's ranging party is overrun by a hoard of wights one night, and Pod and Clegane are half dragging her, bleeding, back to Winterfell, that Jaime truly comes back to her. 

It isn't the exact scenario he had in mind when he revealed his fears; Brienne isn't injured whilst protecting him - Jaime isn't even there when it happens - but simply by an enemy blade, just one of many she is fighting against, that finds its mark. 

She feels weak and dizzy from blood loss, the stab wound in her abdomen soaking through the torn rags they'd packed against it. It stings, but the cold is steadily numbing it. She can't give in to the cold, she knows, but she can feel it creeping into her veins, into her very bones, and Gods she is so very tired. 

Visions of dead men appearing suddenly out of the blizzard, surrounding them, the screams of her men, and deep crimson blood in the snow flash in front of her eyes, and the world is spinning as she loses her footing. As a result, all three of them are stumbling and struggling, battling against the freezing wind and knee deep in snow. Distantly she can hear men shouting, but next to her ear Clegane is panting, 

"Get the maester!" Pod's warmth disappears from her other side and Brienne blinks, trying to banish the recent horrors she's seen to take in her surroundings, but everything is just white. Clegane is still muttering, " - can't die, you great bloody cow, Lannister'll fucking kill me." 

Somewhere in her shock addled brain, Brienne is sure this statement holds some significance, but she can't _think_. Her limbs feel like dead weights and the two of them fall to the ground. The snow is cold and wet, seeping into her clothing. 

"Fuck, you're heavy." The Hound groans, but Brienne pays him no mind because she can hear Jaime calling her name. 

He crashes to his knees beside her in the muddy slush, panting, wide-eyes taking in the sorry state of her. 

"Jaime..." She can't help but murmur wonderingly, and then he's reaching for her and pulling her close until she is reclining against him, practically in his lap, as Samwell Tarly bustles over as quickly as he can. 

"Brienne, talk to me," Jaime says, urgently, "Seven bloody hells, what happened?" 

She isn't sure if he's talking to her or the Hound, but they both answer anyway. 

"Wight attack." She gasps, whilst Clegane curses next to her. 

"Came out of no where. You can't see fuck all out there." 

Brienne is vaguely aware that she's shivering violently; she whispers Jaime's name again like a prayer through chattering teeth. 

"Stay with me." He says, trying in vain to rub some warmth into her arms, and he sounds almost worried. 

Brienne is reminded of the dark time after his maiming when she'd whispered similar things, 

urging him to keep living. They had spent so much time tied together, pressed close to one another, that Jaime's body beneath her now is a strangely familiar, comforting thing. She looks up into his panicked green eyes, watches snowflakes melting in his beard. Her thoughts are sluggish: she's not going anywhere, he's the one who's gone somewhere she can't follow. 

"I'm the one who's following you, wench." 

Oh Gods, did she say that out loud? 

Brienne closes her eyes against the concern on Jaime's face and the pain that shoots through her anew as Sam pokes at her wound. She can't help the way her body tries to jerk away from him and, as a result, closer to Jaime. She'd thought she would never be warm again, but it feels like she might find it in the shelter of his arms. 

"We need to get her inside," comes Sam's voice, and Brienne cranes her head to see him crouching next to her hip, her torn flesh exposed to the air, still bleeding sluggishly; she imagines it freezing over. 

Once again the world shifts and tilts as she is pulled around by several pairs of hands until she is vertical, arms over Jaime's and Clegane's shoulders. 

"Need you to walk, Brienne." Jaime murmurs in her ear, and she turns instinctively towards the sound of it, her nose brushing his bearded cheek. She hears a sharp intake of breath, "Gods, you're like a block of ice. Come on!" 

He urges her forward and somehow she forces her legs to cooperate. She feels Jaime stoop a little and looks down to see him pressing a wad of linen to her wound, presumably in an effort to protect it and keeping her from jostling it too much. 

Brienne feels faint, is sure she's never felt this weak in her life, but forces herself to keep going on trembling legs. She can feel the heavy promise of sleep, of relief, pulling her down, but blinks away the snow in her eyes and tries to focus on Jaime. In her right ear is a steady stream of mumbled curses, on her left Jaime divides his attention between her and the path in front of them. 

"You're turning blue, wench," She can hear the undercurrent of worry in his otherwise flippant tone, "Brienne the Blue isn't supposed to be quite so literal." 

Maybe her brain is frozen, maybe she's lost too much blood, but Brienne snorts, tilts her lolling head to see his face, and catches him looking at her with a soft smile that reaches his eyes. 

Suddenly the world gets darker; the snow stops and flames dance at the edges of her vision, and Brienne knows they are within Winterfell. Sam's hulking form leads them on, which is good because she has no idea where she is or whether they are anywhere near her room. Fleetingly she wonders if this is what it feels like to be blind drunk. She'll have to ask Jaime when she wakes up. _If_ she wakes up. 

"You're not bloody dying." Jaime mutters, the same time Clegane says, "Will you shut the fuck up?" 

Oh, she really needs to stop voicing her thoughts like that. "You do if they're all about dying," Jaime sighs, "I don't think I've ever heard you talk so much." 

Brienne turns her face into the crook of his neck and breathes him in; Jaime lets her. He doesn't recoil or offer some scathing remark, but rather whispers "nearly there" into her hair. He smells of sweat, leather, wet furs and cold steel. 

There is a pause, shuffling footsteps and the creak of a door, and finally she is half lowered, half falling onto a soft bed. Brienne allows herself to surrender then, to sink into the darkness that's pulling her under. She feels a warm, callused hand on her face, Jaime's voice, more panicked than before, then nothing... 

She dreams of dragons breathing orange and blue flames, their roars so deafening it's as though the sky itself is splitting open. The world is made of living shadows and snow. Or is it ash? 

The shadows are the dead, she knows. Moving like they are all one huge, monstrous being surrounding her and those she fights alongside. She knows their faces but can call no names to mind. In her hand Oathkeeper is on fire, and at her back _Jaime_. She knows him, would know him anywhere. Would know him the end of the world. 

He wields a fiery sword too, the twin of hers, and together they try in vain to hold back the darkness before it engulfs them all... 

Brienne wakes on a gasp, eyes flying open and awareness rushing in faster than she can make sense of it. She flails upwards for a second, as if to sit up, but a searing pain flares all along her right side and she hisses, falling back, screwing her eyes shut again as if that could block it out. It's then that she becomes conscious of the nest of fur blankets she is ensconced in, and, more importantly, how _warm_ she is. 

A voice softly hushes her close by, and she turns her head to see Tyrion Lannister in her immediate field of vision, sat near the head of the bed. He offers her a tentative smile when she meets his eyes, but holds up a hand to halt her before she speaks - perhaps he can read the disappointment on her face, for if she imagined any Lannister at her bedside, it is not him - and points to the corner of the room on the opposite side of the bed. 

There the man she was looking for sleeps, arms folded, propped up awkwardly against the wall. He will get a crick in his neck if he stays like that all night. Brienne's chest tightens at the sight of him and she knows the feeling has nothing to do with her injuries. Even in sleep he is unfairly beautiful; artfully dishevelled. 

"You gave him quite a scare," Tyrion says quietly, and Brienne tears her eyes away from one brother to regard the other, questioningly. Tyrion stares back with no hint of jest on his face, "You passed out. Sam could not rouse you for anything. And Jaime..." Tyrion frowns, "I'm not sure I've ever seen my brother that upset." 

A huge part of Brienne still rails in disbelief, because none of it fits with the Jaime she has known for the past few weeks, the one who was intent on keeping formalities between them. She isn't even sure if it fits with the man she thought she knew, but then she vividly recalls him jumping into the bear pit, the weight of his gaze when he gifted her Oathkeeper, and later bade her keep it. The sheer depth of feeling on his face every time they've said goodbye that Brienne cannot begin to explain but knows it is mirrored on her own face... 

And, she supposes, Tyrion, of all people, would know best. 

"Sam tried to make him leave, you know," Tyrion continues, still keeping his voice soft so as not to disturb his brother, "Jaime said he'd like to see him try. You carried on bleeding whilst they argued, so they settled on Jaime being banished to the corner." 

After absorbing this information, Brienne finds her voice, "And -" It comes out faint and croaky, and Tyrion turns to pass a cup of water to her. As she sips it, assuming it's strange bitter taste means it is laced with milk of the poppy, she realises she is dressed in just a loose linen night shirt, and wonders, with embarrassment who it was that undressed her. She swallows and tries again, 

"And they sent for you..." 

"To try and calm him down." Tyrion finishes. 

They fall quiet again for a moment, and Brienne turns back to Jaime, content to just watch him unburdened and at rest for a moment. 

"I didn't think he'd..." She doesn't know where that sentence was going. That he'd care? Or rather, if that doesn't give Jaime the credit he is due, surely not that he would care quite so much. Perhaps Tyrion understands anyway, he does seem remarkably shrewd. 

"Well he did, and he does." Brienne looks at him and finds him studying her intently; it makes her uncomfortable. His eyes flicker to where, she notices, her armour is piled neatly - _Pod_ , she thinks fondly - and Oathkeeper, resting on the table next to her cup of water. Placed within reach. "I've decided you might be the best thing that's ever happened to my brother." 

With this proclamation he is no longer speaking at a whisper; Brienne stares at him, dumbfounded, and realises he is smirking towards the corner. Of course, when she follows his gaze, Jaime is awake, his eyes shining with relief as they meet hers. He doesn't move immediately, but stretches with feigned casualness, 

"Are you bothering the lady, Tyrion?" 

"I'm afraid Lady Brienne has barely got a word in edge ways." 

"No, she never was the best conversationalist," Jaime draws his stool closer so he can perch at the side of the bed, looking down at her and smiling softly. She starts slightly when she feels his fingers brush against hers, and stops breathing for a second when he lifts her hand to his mouth, "But she makes up for it with other skills." 

His lips form the words against her skin before he bestows a kiss over her knuckles, his eyes never leaving hers. Her heart is thumping wildly enough that she wonders if he can hear it, all at slightest touch of his mouth, the brush of his beard. Brienne shivers involuntarily, and her traitorous mind can't help but wonder what they would feel like... elsewhere. 

Jaime smiles against her fingers, eyes dark, like he knows her thoughts, and Brienne can feel the blush rising to her cheeks. Jaime straightens up but he does not relinquish her hand, nor does Brienne pull away. Instead, feeling bold, she turns her palm upward and twines her fingers loosely through his. 

Locked in the intensity of the moment, Brienne has forgotten all about Tyrion until he clears his throat pointedly. 

"I suppose that's my cue." He hops down from his chair, shooting the two of them a leering look. "The Queen will be most relieved to hear that you will recover, my lady." He bows, then nods, "Jaime." And leaves, closing the door behind him. 

Silence reigns for a minute or so, in which Brienne watches Jaime studying their linked hands as though they are a marvel. He runs his thumb over calluses and scars, traces the lines on her palm. His touch is hypnotic and Brienne feels a little drowsy again, though she wonders if that is down to the milk of the poppy in her water. 

"I'm sorry I worried you." She murmurs, and Jaime looks up at her with that same open softness that has been on his face since she woke up. 

He considers her for a moment before he answers, then he sighs, 

"It used to be, when I closed my eyes at night, I would see Aerys. I would hear him screaming the same thing over and over again. I would see the city on fire." Brienne isn't sure where this is going, but doesn't dare interrupt him when he is finally really _talking_ to her. Then it becomes clear. "Now, I see you." Jaime says, candidly, "You die every night in my dreams. My nightmares." 

Once more he has taken her breath away and left her speechless, her tired mind struggling to comprehend his words. Perhaps Jaime doesn't expect a response; he continues despite her just lying there blinking at him stupidly. 

"When I came north I turned my back on everything I've ever known. And yes, most of the time I feel lost. I've asked myself what the fuck am I doing so many times I've lost count. But when I look at you..." His voice wavers, eyes wide and earnest, "I feel certain. And I remember why I kept my word." He smiles, and it is small and self-deprecating, "The word of the Kingslayer is worth very little as it is." 

At this she knows she _has_ to say something. Brienne squeezes his hand and, with as much feeling as she can, murmurs: 

"It is everything." 

Jaime stares at her, startled, returning her grip, and she smiles tiredly. 

"Tyrion was right." He murmurs, whether to her or to himself, she isn't sure, and she feels too slow and fuzzy to understand. She's sinking back down, though she doesn't want leave Jaime again. "Sleep, Brienne," He says, gently, "I'll be here." 

Brienne has no doubt. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry it took me so long to get the final chapter back up again, guys.

Things change after that. The emotion Jaime showed at her bedside remains, in a way, present in their every interaction. It's not obvious - though everyone can see the distinct change in his mood, especially when he's around Brienne - the care he shows her is veiled behind confident jests and casual grins.

It is in the way he practically becomes her shadow, sticking close by her side as much as possible, much to the initial annoyance of Lady Sansa, who then, after a while, becomes resigned to it. Brienne had expected it to annoy her too, since the last time they were in each other's constant company like this he was her prisoner. But Jaime's sharp edges have been worn down since then - when it comes to _her_ anyway - and whereas he can still come out with harsh and cutting barbs, they are never aimed at her. At the most he will call her "wench" with what can only be affection.

It's in the way Brienne will look up after another round of sparring with Lady Arya, the two of them breathless and joyful, to see Jaime watching her with a soft smile of his own, eyes flickering over her form in a way that makes her feel impossibly naked despite her many layers that vary between wool and leather and armour (the armour _he_ gave to her.)

When they spar, she swears the heat in his gaze could melt the frozen yard around them, and Brienne can't blame it all on the exhilaration of swordplay when he presses in close and glances at her lips like he might just swoop in and claim them any day now.

Brienne wants him to, but is afraid at the same time. She's already given so much of herself to Jaime (truthfully she never had a choice), but this last intimacy is still something she has control over. Her body is not soft or womanly, it is not smooth, unblemished skin. It is hard planes of well-honed muscles; it is freckles and scars. She could not bear it if she were to take that step with Jaime and he turned her away once he saw her.

But it isn't all dark eyes and longing glances; it isn't just anticipation of his touch thrumming beneath her skin or the heat coiled low in her belly when she is near him and remembers the feeling of his lips on her hand. It is the quiet camaraderie between them. Jaime will sit down next to her during mealtimes, or at meetings where the northern lords are gathered (and he is no doubt unwelcome, though he would tell her, with an air of indifference, he is not welcome anywhere) and bump his shoulder affectionately against hers in greeting. It makes Brienne feel warm in a different way; not with desire but with a sense of rightness and belonging that she hasn't felt anywhere other than at home on Tarth before.

She is here, serving her lady, and fighting the only fight that really matters. With Jaime at her side.

He will find her up walking the parapets sometimes, looking out across the vast blanket of white beneath them, watching the sun set and wondering if this is it, if this is the final glimpse she will get of it before the Long Night begins. The days are growing ever shorter; they all know it but nobody speaks of it.

That particular evening Brienne cannot shake the strange, ominous feeling in the air. There is a vicious bite in the cold wind that has shivers wracking her tall frame hard enough that her armour rattles.

"You fit right in with the Starks, you know," Jaime's voice almost makes her jump, lost as she was in her brewing uneasiness, "Brooding out in the snow when any sane person would be inside, drinking or fucking away the cold."

He says these things to draw a reaction from her - always has done, since they first met - but these days she imagines he is goading her. He reaches her side and she leans into him, drawn into his orbit despite herself.

"I am not choice company for either of those things." She mutters, and Jaime just snorts, which could mean any number of things.

"No one's ever accused me of being particularly sane." He replies, with a small, self-deprecating smile that she can't help but return.

The wind picks up and rages around them, and Brienne shudders again, partly out of a fear she cannot explain. Jaime frowns and purses his lips, reaches out to try and awkwardly pull her cloak tighter around her with one hand. Warmth blooms briefly in her chest at the small gesture.

"How long have you been out here? Come inside."

"I..." How to explain that she almost feels as though she is waiting for something? That a disquiet hangs over her. "Something doesn't feel right."

She waits for him to laugh it off, but Jaime frowns at her, "What do you mean?"

"I don't know how to -"

  
She is cut off by another fierce gust of wind, carrying her words away. The rushing noise seems to build to a roar all around them when, as one, they turn to look out across the acres of white before them and, even as terror courses through her, Brienne feels as though she has been expecting this all along.

It is as Jon Snow described it: a freezing mist rolls over the land towards them, and when it hits, it steals the breath from her lungs. And past that, in the distance, stretching over the landscape, the army of the dead. They are here.

Brienne can feel her heart pounding, "We... We need to sound the horn." The King in the North had decided to use the same alarm system as the Night's Watch. Neither of them move though; neither of them can tear their eyes away. Everyone had said: it was one thing to hear about it, quite another to finally look upon it.

Despair threatens to well up inside Brienne, and she reaches out to blindly grasp for Jaime's arm. He catches her gloved fingers with his just as the blast of the horn sounds three times. When she finally turns to look at him, she sees her fear reflected in his wide green eyes, but finds strength and comfort in having him there beside her. The horn repeats it's three blasts again and again, and shouts begin to echo from within the castle, but Brienne and Jaime take a moment to breathe, standing hand in hand, high above the army that comes to destroy them all.

Brienne cannot say what Jaime is thinking, but she is memorising his face; the lines and scars and grey streaks in his hair and beard somehow only make him look _more_ handsome and distinguished. She is thinking of everything she still cannot bring herself to say, for she still doesn't have the words for everything she is feeling. She thinks of the one and only time she's felt his lips on her skin, never against her own...

Perhaps she gives herself away by glancing at his mouth, perhaps his thoughts once more mirror her own, but suddenly Jaime is darting closer and she is closing her eyes and, oh, then he is gently kissing her. It is everything and not nearly enough and she barely has enough time to process, let alone savour it, but it ignites something deep inside her that burns purely for him. His lips and the tip of his nose are cold, but his mouth promises warmth if she just had the time to delve deeper.

His beard prickles not unpleasantly, and when he breaks it but stays close she almost tries to chase his mouth, aching for more. Jaime rests his forehead against hers and sighs; his breath warms her already blushing face.

"Stay alive." He whispers, and squeezes her hand before he drops it and steps back. Brienne opens her eyes and he is grinning, all white teeth and bright eyes, and she's never seen him look more alive. "Shall we dance, my lady?"

Her hand falls to Oathkeeper's hilt and they hasten to war.

* * *

 

"What the _fuck_ was that?"

Brienne storms through the door to her chambers and starts yanking at her armour. Her hands are shaking with adrenaline, fear and fury battling inside her as she turns and watches Jaime calmly close the door. She doesn't curse as a rule, but hells that's the second time she has done so at him of late. It would of course be Jaime Lannister that drove her it; no one makes her blood boil quite like he can. So easily.

"You've got a mouth on you now, you know that?" Of course he would be following the same train of thought. She cannot bear to hear him talking so casually.

"Perhaps that's your doing!"

"Oh, I do hope so." His grin is just infuriating her more, and she's sure he knows it.

"Stop avoiding the question, Jaime, answer me!" She pulls at buckles until her cuirass and vambrace hit the floor. She struggles to get her breathing under control, chastising herself, but she's too hot and too cold all at once.

"That was me saving your life, wench! _Again!_ " He snaps, his calm facade finally cracking a little.

"No, that was suicidal!" She can't blink away the memory of hearing him shout her name and turning just in time to see him throw himself into the path of a crowd of wights that had been charging at her back. He'd disappeared into a mass of dead bodies and Brienne had never been more afraid in all her life. It's all a blur of chaos and noise. She knows she screamed for him; hacked and slashed away until she reached him and he was miraculously unharmed.

"Not mutually exclusive." He mutters, halfheartedly shedding his own armour now; a slow task with one hand.

"Oh, shut up!" Brienne looks at him despairingly, "You don't understand!"

She expects a shrug or a roll of the eyes, but Jaime glares, his anger flaring just as hers is giving way to fear and desperation once more. He stalks forward until he is crowding her into the wall with no where to escape his nearness.

"What I was _trying_ to say at your bedside, and apparently did so poorly because _you_ still don't understand, was that I _cannot_ lose you!"

And then Jaime Lannister is kissing her for the second time, and it is nothing like the first. His mouth is hungry, demanding, and Brienne can only clutch at his shoulders and try to keep up. His hands, real and golden, find the slight dip in her waist as he presses closer and licks along her bottom lip. She opens for him on a gasp, but Jaime does not plunder her mouth as she has seen some men do; it's as if he's suddenly aware that she is still very much learning how to do this, and he slows down a little. He sips sweetly at her mouth, his tongue slipping inside to taste, to explore, to meet her own, and gradually he coaxes her into doing the same. They find their rhythm, and Brienne's hands wander, lightly trailing over Jaime's neck, his strong jaw, and the course hairs of his beard. She sucks a little on his bottom lip and is hit with a stab of desire when he moans in  
response.

Jaime breaks the kiss, panting, and if Brienne had any doubts that he was pretending he was kissing someone else, he erases them when he looks at her with dark, wanting eyes,

"I cannot lose you, Brienne."

She is breathing hard too, and no doubt blushing furiously, but somehow she finds her voice, quiet and tremulous,

"Nor I you, Jaime."

They stare at each other and it seems they've run out of words once more. The truth, they both know, is that neither of them could live beyond these few stolen hours of daylight, before night and it's King fall upon them once more.

With a huff of helpless frustration, Jaime buries his face in the crook of her neck and Brienne finds herself cradling his head, running her fingers through sandy strands, soaked with snow and sweat. There is an unfulfilled ache in her core that tells her she wants to continue what they have started. She tells herself that she is brave and no delicate, shy maiden. She tells herself that Jaime wants her and will not turn her away.

The words are there, on the tip of her tongue as Jaime nuzzles the underside of her jaw, presses a kiss just behind her ear that makes her gasp: _I want you. I love you. I want you to have me tonight, if tonight is all we have._

Instead she starts unbuckling his armour and Jaime raises his head, a question in his eyes. She leans in and boldly kisses him in answer, letting her hands follow familiar motions as she sets to ridding them both of all barriers.

This thing between them has always been beyond words anyway.

Jaime tries to help, but his bulky metal hand ends up getting in the way more often than not and he fumbles a little with his left hand. His curses are lost between the feverish play of lips and tongues and he gives up, instead gripping her tight and spinning them both away from the wall and towards the bed. They stumble a little and almost fall and then they are both laughing in between kisses and it's so much more joyous than Brienne had ever imagined.

Despite their best efforts they have to stop kissing in order to sit and take off boots and greaves, sharing heated glances and secret smiles. Brienne is quicker, and kneels to help Jaime, and it's only when she has finished the task that she realises she is sitting between his legs and that the bulge of his arousal is in her line of sight.

That is because of _her_. Such a strange thought, for she never thought that she would be one to stir a man to such obvious desire, to make him hard for her. And the fact that it is _Jaime_... She wishes she were the sort of woman who could now brazenly run a hand along the inside of his leg, touch and stroke him through his trousers. But no, she is not _that_ brave, it seems. Not yet.

Instead, she turns her attention to his golden hand, pushes his sleeve up and starts to undo the straps with gentle fingers. There is a soft intake of air above her head, but she continues until she can remove the ridiculous hunk of metal and set it aside on the floor with a dull thunk. It has been a long time since she saw his stump, naked, unadorned, and it has healed over now, the scar tissue fading white. There are red marks from where the hand and it's straps have dug into his skin, and it never occurred to her how uncomfortable it must be for him to wear all the time. She runs her thumbs over them as if to soothe the ache, and at that Jaime speaks,

"Brienne..."

She looks up and meets his stunned gaze, wide eyed and almost vulnerable, and it hits her that he never expected this. He never thought that she would treat this part of him with as much care and attention as the rest of him. Upon this realisation, Brienne drops a kiss to the puckered skin, hears his breath hitch again, and then he is pulling her onto the bed with him, capturing her mouth once more, and pouring everything he cannot say into his kiss. To Brienne, it tastes like acceptance, of his flaws and hers.

They stay like that for a while, lying on their sides facing one another, sharing deep, demanding kisses that make Brienne's head spin and stoke the fire burning inside her. Hands travel, first over clothes, learning the shape and feel of one another, then slipping underneath to touch heated skin. Brienne traces the broad planes of Jaime's back, strong arms and shoulders that hold him up above her as he presses her gently into the mattress, as Jaime's fingers explore the bare skin at her waist.

His touch is feather-light but leaves trails of heat in its wake, setting nerve endings alight, edging higher beneath her shirt until he brushes the underside of her breast. She'd thought she would shy away but instead a sigh escapes her and she arches into his hand when he cups the small swell; she gasps when he sweeps his thumb over her nipple and she's hitched a leg over his hip before her mind can catch up.

He'd been smiling into her neck at the soft sounds he was drawing from her, but now Jaime groans and grinds his hips against her. She can feel his hardness pressing right where she needs him, where she knows she is warm and wet and aching for him. She is not so inexperienced that she has not explored her own body before and knows the way it reacts, knows that pleasure can be found from touching certain places. She also knows that it is supposed to hurt the first time, for a woman, but Brienne has never been afraid of pain; she wants to feel Jaime inside her.

In reality though, she still shies away and tries to tug her shirt back down when Jaime shuffles down her body and lifts it to plant kisses over her stomach. He catches her hands, fidgeting with the linen, with his own, and looks up with a reassuring smile,

"It's alright," He murmurs before bestowing another kiss, a little higher, and she shivers, "It's just me."

That's right, she thinks, and allows him to tug the garment up again, his mouth mapping out every inch of newly exposed skin; it's just Jaime, and he's seen her before. His lips close around a peaked nipple just as she removes her shirt completely and a startled "Oh!" of pleasure escapes her. Her back arches off the bed as Jaime's lips, tongue, teeth and beard draw out different sensations, and she cards her fingers through his hair in encouragement.

Brienne wants to see more of him, feel his skin pressed against hers, so she grasps at his tunic and unceremoniously pulls it over his head. Jaime emerges with adorably ruffled hair and a boyish grin that she cannot stop herself from kissing, and he hums against her lips as she sets about exploring him with tentative fingers. Jaime crawls over her then, pressing her back onto the bed and covering her. Brienne thinks maybe she should feel caged in, trapped, but she welcomes the weight of his body, loops her arms around his shoulders to pull him closer; always closer and still not close enough.

Distracted by his kisses and the perfect feeling of him on top of her, she doesn't notice Jaime trailing his lone hand down her stomach until he's already snuck inside her breeches and small clothes, and then they're both moaning at the feeling of his fingers slipping through her wet folds.

"Gods, Brienne..." He sounds almost pained even though he's the one torturing her with gentle strokes, unerringly finding the small, swollen bud at the crown of her and rubbing tight circles. It feels so good that Brienne forgets about being nervous, or embarrassed at the noises she is making. The world narrows down to the white hot tendrils of pleasure spreading from her core and the enraptured expression on Jaime's face as he watches her come undone at his touch.

Her hips are rocking instinctively against his hand as the pleasure rises, crests, and she cannot hold his gaze anymore as it crashes over her. She is lost to it, waves and waves rushing through her, and distantly Brienne hears herself crying out his name; her own touch has never felt like this.

When she floats back down, all her muscles quivering and her heart racing, she opens her eyes and Jaime is there hovering over her, stroking her hair. There is no urgency in him, even though she can feel his need pressed against her thigh. His gaze is almost tender,

"I didn't think you could look more glorious than you do with a sword in your hand," He whispers, "I was wrong."

Brienne can only stare up at him for a moment, dazed, until she pulls him down into a kiss; she has this now to express herself when words fail her.

She reaches down between them to start unlacing his breeches and Jaime breaks the kiss on a gasp when she brushes against the hardness there. There's that questioning, wide-eyed look again.

"I want to see _you_ , now," She means in the way he has just seen her - wild and exposed and lost in the throes of pleasure - and maybe he understands. "I want..." She raises her hips to make her meaning clear.

"Are you sure?" He asks hoarsely, "We don't have to -"

"I'm sure." And she is. Here in his arms she feels safe and secure, and, despite the death and despair all around them, suddenly it feels perfect to her. She wouldn't want this to happen any other way. "I trust you, Jaime."

He is visibly moved by her words; she remembers him saying them to her, back in Harrenhall, but she's never returned the sentiment out loud until now.

Brienne slips out of the rest of her clothes easily and helps Jaime with his, feeling her heart quicken again at the sight of his cock, red and swollen for wanting her. The thought of it being inside her is all at once exhilarating and daunting.

Jaime braces himself over her once more so she is encased in his arms, and Brienne opens her legs to cradle his hips between them. Then, eyes locked on hers, Jaime slowly pushes inside.

He gasps, "Fuck," and Brienne tries not to tense, but Jaime does not sink down completely all at once. Instead, panting and shaking with restraint, he withdraws and then pushes a little deeper, rocking his hips and letting her get used to the feel of him gradually. The stretch burns, but it is the care he is showing her, the gentleness in his movements, along with the overwhelming feeling of him filling her, that brings tears to Brienne's eyes.

Jaime stills, trembling, "Did I hurt you?" His brow furrows with concern and it makes the tears spill over; he catches one with a brush of his thumb over her cheek, "Brienne?"

He starts to pull back, but Brienne quickly wraps her arms and legs around him, bringing their hips flush together, and it startles the breath out of them both.

"I'm alright," She whispers in his ear, strokes his hair, "Stay here."

Brienne feels him nod and kiss her neck, and she takes a moment to breathe and adjust. Then she turns her head to capture his mouth, lifts her hips, and Jaime understands. He begins to move, slow but deep, kisses her through it, until she tightens her grip on his shoulders a little, hooks her leg up to his waist and grinds herself against him. It is an unspoken demand: _let go, I won't break_ , and Jaime growls into her mouth and complies. His pace quickens, driving into her harder, and Brienne meets him thrust for thrust as her discomfort fades and pleasure starts to stir in its wake.

He hits a spot that has her arching her back and crying out with a surprised, "Oh!"

Jaime lifts his head enough to look at her, pleased, "There?"

She nods breathlessly and Jaime kisses her, hot and messy. She angles her hips and tries to chase that feeling again but Jaime is fast losing his rhythm, dissolving in her arms. Brienne cups his face and holds him there because she wants to watch him fall apart, and a couple of thrusts later his whole body tenses, his hips stutter and jerk, and he groans deep as pleasure washes over him. He is beautiful.

" _Brienne_..." He sinks down on top of her and she kisses his sweaty forehead, happy for him to remain here inside her for a moment. She will have to get some moon tea from the maester, she thinks, but it was worth it; she would not change anything about what they just shared.

Eventually Jaime rolls onto his back, pulls her into his arms and is soon snoring softly. Brienne knows she should sleep too, but instead she watches him. Her heart is full, heavy with everything they are to each other, yet all the things they may never get to have. She never expected to marry - she still doesn't really even _want_ to - but it doesn't stop her from imagining an impossible future where they both live through this war and are free to love each other without hiding.

She watches the grey daylight fade and the shadows fall across his face, and then Brienne hears the horn. Beyond this room, the world is preparing to join in battle once more, and Jaime's eyes snap open at the sound. He looks at her and then together they wordlessly extricate themselves from their embrace, throw back the furs they'd been nestled in, and begin to dress.

When they stand fully armoured, twin swords strapped to their hips, Jaime touches her cheek, the side of her neck, and pulls her into one more kiss. It feels very much like their first, at the brink of battle, but everything and nothing has changed. Brienne knows how to kiss Jaime Lannister now and she does so fiercely, desperately, and when they part, she is the one to whisper:

"Stay alive."

The future is uncertain, but Brienne will fight to keep this - to keep _him_ \- for as long as she can.


End file.
